


Salvator

by DachOsmin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pining, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:01:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24350986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: After Hastur takes it upon himself to fix Crowley's angel problem, it's up to Crowley to come to Aziraphale's rescue.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 91
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Salvator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AnnetheCatDetective](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/gifts).



Crowley is in the middle of his daily standoff with his potted ferns when the phone rings. Probably a telemarketer. He lets it go to message as he inspects the tips of the leaves for browning; whenever he explodes a telemarketer’s earpiece seven more seem to spring up in its place.

(He had in fact invented telemarketers, and had been very pleased with himself for all of half a day, at which point he realized that they knew no fear of heaven nor hell, and were just as happy to call him about improved auto insurance rates as they were anyone else.)

The phone rolls over into voicemail as he finishes with the ferns and moves on to their equally terrified coniferous neighbors.

“Crowley,” the phone growls.

He grimaces and gropes for the phone, biting back a curse as he accepts the call. Just what he needed to liven up the day. “Hastur! Lovely to hear from you! I was just about to pop over to the store, could you call back in—"

You’ll be pleased to note,” Hastur says. “That we’ve solved your little problem for you.”

Crowley frowns, and runs through any number of problems in his head before settling on the most likely. “Have you fixed that cockup with the expense reports, then? Because I—"

“What—no.” Hastur says. “And don’t ask me about it again; mine is still pear shaped as well. Call accounting.”

There are few things in this world or the next that Crowley wants to do less than contact Hell’s accounting department. He shifts the phone to his other shoulder and shoots a menacing puff of mist at a peaked looking saxifrage _._ “What is it, then?”

“Heard you’ve been having angel trouble. You won’t be, anymore.” The smugness would have melted the phone, if smugness had the power to melt phones.

Crowley pauses. Sets down the spray bottle very carefully. Swallows. “What does that mean?”

***

Despite all the hubbub in the cinema about murderous demons, there’s really very little demons can actually _do_ to a person _._ Murder of humans is for the most part right out: unless the human in question has already sold their soul to the man down below, the man upstairs tends to get tetchy about that sort of thing.

As for murdering angels, any first-circle imp can tell you that exploding the particular human flesh suit an angel happens to be wearing at any given time will only force them to reconstitute upstairs and fill out a series of forms, at which point they’ll be back on earth steaming mad with a bucket of holy water and no angelic mercy to spare.

No, there’s no real point in killing an angel. But pain?

Pain is fair game.

And demons are very good at it.

***

On the rare occasions that Crowley is forced to make a physical appearance in hell, he generally drags his feet about it. There’s a familiar ritual of getting ready, grumbling, and putting it off, to the extent that it generally takes at least half the day before he actually makes the trip.

This time, Crowley makes it downstairs in six seconds flat.

He strides through the corridors at breakneck speeds, just short of breaking into a run. He sees demons he knows and demons he doesn’t, but none try to talk to him, either because he’s moving too fast or because he’s projecting nigh-fatal levels of do-not-fuck-with-me to all and sundry.

He makes it to Hastur’s dungeon and takes a moment to collect himself. His chest hurts and his lungs can’t seem to pull in enough air, which is odd since he’s pretty sure his lungs technically don’t need air. It’s funny, how a body can betray you like that.

He pushes the door open.

There are other people in the room—Hastur, and some of his cronies—but Crowley only has eyes for _him._

Aziraphale.

He’s on his knees, wrists chained and pulled wide apart. His head is hanging forward. There’s blood dripping from his right temple. He isn’t moving.

They’ve hurt him. They’ve _hurt_ him.

Crowley wants to scream at the top of his lungs. He wants to unhinge his jaw and swallow whole whoever did this, whoever dared to lay a hand on Aziraphale. He wants to go supernova, to explode the walls of this putrid little cell, to set up a blast radius miles wide, until the very air is bleeding and demons everywhere know that this is unacceptable, that this is beyond the pale, that they fucked up _bad._

He inhales. Exhales. And says, in a quiet voice: “take him down.”

Next to him, Hastur scoffs. “And why would we do that? We’ve just started on him.

One of his lackeys cackles, a peculiar croaking sound. Crowley wants to wring her neck until her eyes pop out. “He cried! Can you believe that? Cried, like one of those filthy little monkeys. “

The thought of Aziraphale crying does to the metaphorical thread Crowley is hanging by what a machete does to grocer’s twine. He sees white for a second, and then red. But somehow he manages to keep his mouth shut until he can get himself under control. Because he needs to be in control. For Aziraphale.

It’s going to take an Oscar-winning performance to get out of this with Aziraphale safe. Well. Jolly good then, Crowley would like to thank the fucking academy.

He flips a smile at Hastur—the smarmiest he can manage—and steps forward so that he’s an arms breadth away from Aziraphale, close enough that he can see the rust on the chains, the bloody moons of fingernails on the angel’s palms.

Aziraphale’s head is lolling forward against his chest. Crowley reaches out and slips his finger beneath Aziraphale’s chin, jerking it up so he can look Aziraphale in the face. He’s arrested a moment by that face, its ridges and valleys, the imperfect symmetry of it. Aziraphale’s eyes are closed or else he’d get lost in those two. Crowley is selfishly grateful that Aziraphale looks to be unconscious; he doesn’t want him to hear what he’s about to say.

He lets Aziraphale’s head drop back against his chest and turns around to face Hastur. “Take him down,” he says again.

“Again: why?”

“Because,” Crowley hisses, “this pathetic creature has been thwarting me for _six millennia_.”

“In Eden. In Babel. On the banks of the Tigris _and_ the Euphrates, in Rome and her provinces, on the shores of jolly old England and every other fucking place besides—this filthy little maggot has been a thorn in my side.”

Crowley twists his face into a snarl. “I have hated him since I knew what hating was. I’ve woken up hating him and gone to sleep hating him, I hate him with every fibre of my being, I hate him right now—and I’ll be ­ _blessed_ if I’m going to let anyone else steal me of the satisfaction of doing something about it.”

He pauses for a breath and looks around to see how he did.

The lackey blinks.

Hastur raises an eyebrow. And slowly, infernal of infernals, pulls a key out of his pocket, and reaches for the chains. “I’m sending you my reports from accounting,” he growls.

And it’s a measure of how undone he is that all Crowley can say in response is “fine.”

***

Crowley carries the angel Aziraphale out of hell, bridal-style.

He’s light, lighter than Crowley would’ve thought. But perhaps all angels are light. They all dance on the heads of pins and all that, or so he’s told. Crowley himself never did any pin dancing back in the day, but things change.

Aziraphale is limp against his chest, but his breathing is steady and his breath is warm. Everything about him is gentle now: the soft curves of his face are smooth and unguarded in unconsciousness. Crowley lets himself look down, unguarded, drink in this snapshot of Aziraphale perfect and beautiful and _safe._

This is how he gets snared: he’s staring into the angel’s face like a besotted teenager, and then there are two of the bluest eyes on earth or heaven looking back at him.

Crowley jerks his head up to stare at a particularly interesting mote of air, but it’s too late.

Aziraphale smiles. “Knew you’d come.” His voice is raspy and weary, and Crowley makes a note that as soon as they get back to Crowley’s flat he’s going to make him drink his weight in honey tea. But first: time to deny everything.

He schools his face into something indolent and cool. “Don’t know what you mean. You were on the way.”

Aziraphale’s smile curves wider, and how is it that even though he’s the one holding the angel, he feels like he’s the one caught? “You meant it, then? All of it?”

He’s got his sunglasses on but they do nothing at all; he knows in his bones that Aziraphale sees him, sees all of him. “Don’t know what you mean.”

Aziraphale is grinning now, and his eyes are soft and tender. “Hated me since you knew what hating was? Wake up hating me and go to sleep hating me? Hate me right now?”

Because of course he was listening. Because of course even though the speech fooled Hastur, Aziraphale knew what he was really saying, what he can’t help but say whenever he thinks of Aziraphale.” Crowley gives up pretending and leans down to press a kiss against Aziraphale’s brow. “Oh, angel. Always.”


End file.
